The Wild Duck's Nest


          THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
          Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
          With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell
          Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
          As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring,
          Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
          Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
          And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.
          Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,
          And dimly-gleaming Nest,--a hollow crown                    10
          Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
          Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow:
          I gazed--and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
          For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!
                                                              1819.

Written Upon A Blank Leaf In "The Complete Angler."


          WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
          Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign!
          Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
          Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
          To reverend watching of each still report
          That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
          Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,
          He found the longest summer day too short,
          To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
          Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook--               10
          Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
          The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;
          And the fresh meads--where flowed, from every nook
          Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!
                                                              1819.

Captivity--Mary Queen Of Scots


          "AS the cold aspect of a sunless way
          Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier chill,
          Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill,
          Glistening with unparticipated ray,
          Or shining slope where he must never stray;
          So joys, remembered without wish or will
          Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill,--
          On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay.
          Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind
          To fit proportion with my altered state!                    10
          Quench those felicities whose light I find
          Reflected in my bosom all too late!--
          O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait;
          And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind!"
                                                              1819.

To A Snowdrop


          LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
          But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
          Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
          Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day,
          Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay
          The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
          Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
          Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May
          Shall soon behold this border thickly set
          With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing                10
          On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
          Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
          Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring,
          And pensive monitor of fleeting years!
                                                              1819.

On Seeing A Tuft Of Snowdrops In A Storm


          WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie,
          And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,
          Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring
          Mature release, in fair society
          Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try;
          Like these frail snowdrops that together cling,
          And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing
          Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by.
          Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great
          May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand        10
          The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate;
          And so the bright immortal Theban band,
          Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command,
          Might overwhelm, but could not separate!
                                                              1819.

Composed In One Of The Valleys Of Westmoreland, On Easter Sunday


          WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
          That saw the Saviour in his human frame
          Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
          Put on fresh raiment--till that hour unworn:
          Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
          And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
          In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
          Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
          A blest estate when piety sublime
          These humble props disdained not! O green dales!            10
          Sad may 'I' be who heard your sabbath chime
          When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
          Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own;
          And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!
                                                              1819.

"Grief, Thou Hast Lost An Ever-Ready Friend"


          GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend
          Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute;
          And Care--a comforter that best could suit
          Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
          And Love--a charmer's voice, that used to lend,
          More efficaciously than aught that flows
          From harp or lute, kind influence to compose
          The throbbing pulse--else troubled without end:
          Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
          From her own overflow, what power sedate                    10
          On those revolving motions did await
          Assiduously--to soothe her aching breast;
          And, to a point of just relief, abate
          The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.
                                                              1819.

"I Watch, And Long Have Watched, With Calm Regret"


          I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret
          Yon slowly-sinking star--immortal Sire
          (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire!
          Blue ether still surrounds him--yet--and yet;
          But now the horizon's rocky parapet
          Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire,
          He burns--transmuted to a dusky fire--
          Then pays submissively the appointed debt
          To the flying moments, and is seen no more.
          Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate,                 10
          While health, power, glory, from their height decline,
          Depressed; and then extinguished; and our state,
          In this, how different, lost Star, from thine,
          That no to-morrow shall our beams restore!
                                                              1819.

"I Heard (Alas! 'Twas Only In A Dream)"


          I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream)
          Strains--which, as sage Antiquity believed,
          By waking ears have sometimes been received
          Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;
          A most melodious requiem, a supreme
          And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
          By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved,
          O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam.
          For is she not the votary of Apollo?
          And knows she not, singing as he inspires,                  10
          That bliss awaits her which the ungenial Hollow
          Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires?
          Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires!
          She soared--and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow.
                                                              1819.

The Haunted Tree
To ------


          THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun
          His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less
          To overshade than multiply his beams
          By soft reflection--grateful to the sky,
          To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense
          Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
          More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
          Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired
          In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
          Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use                     10
          Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of Art,
          That eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought
          On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs
          In languor; or, by Nature, for repose
          Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the chase.
          O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight
          Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves,
          Approach;--and, thus invited, crown with rest
          The noon-tide hour: though truly some there are
          Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid                       20
          This venerable Tree; for, when the wind
          Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound
          (Above the general roar of woods and crags)
          Distinctly heard from far--a doleful note!
          As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed)
          The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
          Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,
          By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost
          Haunts the old trunk; lamenting deeds of which
          The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind                30
          Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;
          Not even a zephyr stirs;--the obnoxious Tree
          Is mute; and, in his silence, would look down,
          O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills,
          On thy reclining form with more delight
          Than his coevals in the sheltered vale
          Seem to participate, the while they view
          Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads
          Vividly pictured in some glassy pool,
          That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!        40
                                                              1819.